


A Christmas Omen

by CandyQueenAO3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beelzebub is a Dick, But He Gets Better, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Ghosts of Christmas, Human Crowley (Good Omens), Humor, Multi, No Period-Typical Homophobia, No Slow Burns Here lol, No Stockholme Syndrome Tho, Other Additional Character Tags to Be Added - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, She/Her Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Dagon (Good Omens), Sort Of, Zine, mostly - Freeform, so is Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandyQueenAO3/pseuds/CandyQueenAO3
Summary: A Christmas Carol x Good Omens fusion written for the Winter Wonderland Mini Zine starring Anthony J. Crowley as Scrooge and Aziraphale as the Ghost of Christmas past.So how does a jar with air-holes in the lid factor into this?*~*~*~*~*From Chapter 5:Aziraphale’s smile was shattered and his eyes shone with moisture.“My time upon this globe is very brief,” he admitted. “It ends today.”“T-today?” Crowley whispered. He shook his head, refusing to believe. “You cannot make me love you, show me kindness, and then leave! You need to stay and ensure that I follow the lessons you have taught!”
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Arthur Young | Mr Young/Deirdre Young, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Kudos: 24
Collections: Good Omens Winter Wonderland Zine





	1. Bea L. Zebub's Ghost

**Author's Note:**

> I, quite obviously, took a few liberties when compared to the original story. Still, I hope my vaguely-Dickensian writing will be enjoyable enough! This fic is pre-written, and a new chapter will be added each day, so keep checking back!

Bea L. Zebub (or just “Beelzebub” to her unfortunate employees) was dead.

No ifs ands or buts about it.

Her business partner, one Anthony J. Crowley, was the only one who attended her funeral, as she had no family, no friends, not even so much as a single well-wisher who cared enough to see her off into the great unknown. No one, except for a business partner who could, on a  _ good  _ day, best be described as “combative and arrogant”. The other words people had for him were  _ far  _ less nice.

Years later, even after Bea’s death, the sign bearing the name of their firm, “Zebub and Crowley”, still hung about the old warehouse door as unchanged as ever. Why bother changing it? The “Zebub” half of “Zebub and Crowley” was worm food, and the “Crowley” half didn’t feel that it was worth the effort.

Ah, but as for Anthony Crowley, what could possibly be said about him? What warmth and joy did such a name invoke?

None, quite frankly.

He was a solitary figure, all hard lines and sharp angles. Some of those more prone to gossip and speculation attributed his cold, biting demeanour to the ice that surely encased his heart. The bishop of the local church held opinions of a far more infernal nature. To Bishop Wescott, Crowley’s flame-red hair, amber eyes (almost sulfurous yellow!), and pyroclastic bouts of anger were all proof that the man was an agent of Lucifer. The fact that Mr. Crowley attended Sunday, Easter, or Christmas Mass only served to further cement the good bishop’s belief.

It wasn’t just men of the cloth, however, that viewed him with a critical eye. Nearly every citizen in London knew of his surliness and those who didn’t learned  _ very  _ quickly not to cross him.

When he sauntered down the streets, heavy brass cane in hand for whacking the shins of anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path, people gave him a  _ wide  _ berth. Beggars would hold their begging caps close to their chests and avert their eyes, lest they draw his ire. Even the stray dogs and cats who roamed the streets avoided him. Their animal instincts, honed over many millennia, screamed “serpent!” whenever he passed.

I can say, without exaggeration, that Mr. Crowley was truly the most hated man in London, if not  _ all  _ of the British Isles.

And that was  _ just  _ the way he liked it.

What was the point of human companionship?

People hurt each other. That was simply an immutable fact of life. If you hurt them  _ first,  _ however, then  _ you  _ held the advantage against getting hurt yourself. It was a strategy that, in Crowley’s opinion, was without equal.

Of course, even the greatest strategy cannot protect someone from the consequences of their own actions…

***~*~*~*~***

It was Christmas Eve and Crowley sat alone in his counting-house.

It was cold and dark as Christmas Eve is usually wont to be. Through the frost-rimmed panes of the windows, he could hear the teeming masses go shuffling by, clumped together for warmth. Voices rose and fell in conversation. Every so often, someone would sing a few snatches of some wretched carol and Crowley would grit his teeth against the urge to fling a brick through his own window at the obnoxious singer.

The last time he’d done that, however, the constable hadn’t been pleased with him.

It was also a waste of a perfectly good brick.

Across the room, hunched over his small desk and warmed only by a meagre candle, sat Crowley’s clerk. The man, Arthur Young, was an agreeable sort of fellow, if a bit dull-witted. He’d been employed by Zebub and Crowley for several years, even since before Bea’s death, and bore his employers’ foul tempers with a smile and good cheer.

The pair of them flinched when the front door banged open and a cheerful, “Merry Christmas, neighbor! God save you!” rang out over the sepulchre-like stillness of the building. It was Crowley’s neighbor, Eric, who had the most obnoxious habit of popping up unexpectedly.

Crowley muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and returned to his work.

Eric’s cheeks held a ruddy flush to them from the chill, and frost clung to his long lashes to where they were almost white. He pulled his cap off, accidentally sticking his hair up in all sorts of odd angles.

“Such sourness on Christmas! Surely you can do better than that?” the young man said.

Crowley groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose between bony fingers. “Why are you always so distressingly cheerful? It’s not as though you don’t have reason to be dour. Look at you!”

Eric glanced down at his worn clothes. Though he was not poor, he lived modestly, and worked hard for his simple lifestyle.

“Why are you always so distressingly gloomy?” he retorted. “It’s not as though you don’t have reasons to smile.”

Crowley simply grumbled, “Bah!”

“Don’t be crass!” Eric tutted.

“As though I could be anything else,” his surly neighbor replied. “I live every day surrounded by fools! ‘Merry Christmas’, HA! The Devil take all Christmases! If I had my way, I’d have every idiot who wishes me ‘Merry Christmas’ be boiled alive in their own cider and stake holly through their hearts!”

Eric and Arthur gave matching gasps of scandal.

“Mr. Crowley!”

“Anthony-”

“You celebrate Christmas in your  _ own  _ way, so let me celebrate it in  _ mine,”  _ Crowley said sternly.

“But you  _ don’t  _ celebrate it!” whined Eric.

_ “Then let me ignore it!” _

Eric’s bottom lip wobbled a bit, making him look so much more youthful and childish than his twenty years allowed. He took in a shaky breath.

“I know you don’t quite agree, but I’ve always seen Christmas as a good time,” he began. “It’s the one time of year that people open up their hearts to the lost, the needy, the less-fortunate. They, if only for a moment, see each other not as other races or cultures or beliefs, but as one unified group that all march steadfastly toward the same inevitable conclusion. People address each other with kindness, regardless of their stations. Therefore, I say…  _ God bless it!” _

Arthur applauded politely. When Crowley levelled him with a glare hot enough to practically melt the stumpy candle beside him, the clerk hastily returned to his letters.

“If I hear one more word from  _ you…”  _ Crowley menaced, jabbing his quill at a crestfallen Arthur. “...you’ll be spending Christmas without a job.” When the clerk turned away, thoroughly chastised, Crowley faced his neighbor. “You’re quite the orator, young man. Have you considered a career in Parliament?”

Eric winced at the thought.

“Don’t be such a boor. Why don’t you come have dinner with my wife and I tomorrow?”

Crowley shook his head without another word, and Eric stomped his foot petulantly. “But  _ why not?!  _ Why can’t you and I just be friends?”

“Go away,” the not-friend grumbled.

“But-”

_ “GO AWAY!” _

His outburst was loud enough to practically shake the rafters, and the other two men fell silent. Eric looked ready to cry, but he was resolute to the last. He shoved his cap back on and marched for the door. As he flung it open, he took one last opportunity to shout, “Merry Christmas!” then slammed it behind him.

All was finally still.

Then, the door swung open again and Eric poked his head in once more. “And a Happy New Year!”

He barely closed it in time to avoid getting pierced with the letter-opener which Crowley promptly flung at him. The knifepoint embedded itself into the wall, quivering in place like an arrow shaft in a target.

Crowley barely had an opportunity to catch his breath (or reach for something else to throw) before the door opened and two other gentlemen walked in. They were portly gentlemen - for this author, they called to mind a certain pair of twins from a famous work of Carroll’s - with pleasant smiles and a pair of too-small hats in their hands. One of them had a ledger in his hand and bowed politely to address the gentlemen of the firm.

“Is this ‘Zebub & Crowley’?” he asked. Arthur answered in the affirmative. “Excellent! Would you be Mr. Crowley, then? Or Ms. Zebub?”

“The former would be  _ me,”  _ the real Crowley growled. “And Zebub has been dead these past seven years. On this very night, specifically.”

The man who incorrectly addressed Arthur paled before he caught himself. “W-well I’m sure her generosity lives on in her business partner.”

“What do you  _ want?”  _ Crowley grit out, and Portly Gentleman #2 scrambled to announce their business.

“W-well at this time of year my associates and I like to gather alms for the poor and destitute of this city, who suffer greatly in the winter months; moreso than usual, that is. Many are in need of things that we tend to take for granted,” he explained, opening his ledger.

Crowley’s face was an impassive mask of stone.

“Are there no prisons?” he asked suddenly, after a tense moment of silence.

The philanthropists looked at each other in confusion.

“P-plenty of prisons,” one of them stammered out, obviously confused by this conversational digression.

“And the workhouses?” Crowley demanded, rising out of his seat. “Are  _ they  _ still in operation as well?”

“They are, though I wish I could say otherwise,”

He sat back down. “Ah, good. I was afraid that something may have happened to them to stop them in their helpful services considering that  _ you’re  _ coming  _ here  _ to beggar me for money.”

“‘Helpful’ in that they barely provide at  _ all,”  _ Portly Gentleman #1 rebutted. “In light of this, we’re going around and collecting funds in order to buy the poor some food and drink and means of warmth. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied.

“Oh! You wish to remain anonymous?”

“I wish to be left  _ alone!”  _ he shouted. “I don’t  _ care  _ to celebrate this time of year, and I care even  _ less  _ if others do not have the means to do so as well! If they wish to live beyond their station, then they may go to the poorhouse and leave me in peace!”

“But many of them would rather  _ die!” _

Crowley’s eyes flashed dangerously with the promise of Hellfire. “If they’d rather die, than they’d better get to it then,” he said with an air of finality. “And decrease the surplus population.”

Portly Gentleman #1 and #2 erupted into scandalized gasps. When no admittance of a jest was forthcoming, they sadly withdrew themselves from the premises. Mr. Crowley, it seemed, was too far gone to be any potential source of charity this year.

Or any other year.

***~*~*~*~***

As the closing hour drew nigh, the fog and darkness over London thickened. The ancient church tower rang out the sixth hour, sounding so much crisper in the piercing winter chill. The sluice water from the gutters had concealed into filthy slush that dripped onto the heads of passersby, or froze entirely and hung in the air as most wicked icicles.

The only warmth of be had in the night came from the shop windows, decorated in candles and holly and tinsel to be so enticing as to lure customers in to peruse the wares. Light flooded the street from the windows, piercing the blue haze of the evening with singular squares of red-gold light like fire. Children huddled around the windows, their noses pressed against the foggy glass to watch the goings-on in the shop beyond and place boyish wagers on the contents of the parcels tucked under ladies’ arms.

It was in this period of interwoven darkness and light that the hour came to close up “Zebub & Crowley” for the evening. Arthur quickly tidied up his small work station before doffing his moth-eaten hat. Crowley heaved a put-out sigh.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting off all day tomorrow?” he asked.

“I-if it’s convenient, sir,” Arthur stuttered in reply.

“If you  _ must,”  _ his employer groaned, buttoning up his coat. “But be here even earlier the next day.”

Arthur swore he would, then was out the door faster than Crowley could blink. The curmudgeon growled in frustration, and locked up.

He stomped down the streets back to the place he called home: a towering stone edifice of black brick that would look more at home on the cover of a Gothic novella than anywhere else. He fumbled for his keys with fingers numbed from cold as he carefully climbed the ice-slick steps to his front door. When he looked back up to insert the heavy brass key into the latch, he was met with - not his usual door knocker - but Bea’s  _ face! _

Crowley stared at it, uncomprehendingly, for what may have been a small eternity. His old business partner’s face was not shrouded in shadow, but stood out as clearly as though she were standing in front of him on the street. Her face was not decayed or rotting or what one would otherwise expect from a ghostly visage, but simply looked as it had in Crowley’s memories: a permanent scowl affixed to an almost youthful-looking face. Her black hair churned in the air as though stirred by the wind, though the night was still. 

Crowley blinked once, and Bea was gone.

It was a knocker once more.

He fought down the disquiet he felt, chalked the vision up to his harrowing afternoon, and let himself into his darkened home. Upon return to more familiar surroundings, he felt much of his unease slough off, though he still took the time to peer into each cavernous room of his home. Just to be safe. Seeing no intruders, brigands, or further spectres, Crowley retired to his room for the rest of the night.

There he sat, brooding on the events of the day and the inevitable cacophony to follow come morning. He was pulled from his melancholy by the faintest chime and he glanced above the doorway to his bedroom to see an old bell meant to summon servants (one of several that were connected through the house to what had once been the previous tenant’s study) slowly rock back and forth upon its perch. The ones beside it began to ring in a similar fashion until the din could surely be heard from the street below.

The noise, quite suddenly, stopped all at once, plunging the room into utter silence apart from the racing of poor Mr. Crowley’s heart.

The silence was held for but a moment, before it was once more rent. This time, by a thunderous clanking noise from below as though someone were dragging heavy chains across the floor. Crowley listened as the noise grew closer, frozen in his chair like roots had grown to anchor him in place.

He practically leapt out of his chair when the source of the noise passed effortlessly through his bedroom door like it had never been there to begin with.

Bea L. Zebub.

The same face. The same waistcoat and boots. The same dark hair.

A thick chain was wrapped around her middle like an oversized belt, the end of which dragged on the floor and was weighed down with boxes and padlocks wrought in hellfire-forged iron. Her body was transparent enough to where Crowley could see clean through to the other side, but substantial enough that he could not dismiss her appearance out of hand as just an errant trick of the light.

There comes a time in every gentleman’s life where he must confront the unexpected with all the candor he has come to be known by. In Crowley’s case it was as acerbic as ever.

“W-what do you want with me?!” he demanded of the spectre.

“...much…” came Bea’s raspy voice, as sure as it ever was hers. Her eyes, milky and opaque, fixed upon him. “You do not believe it is me?”

“I… I don’t,” Crowley said, feeling a little bolder for that he hadn’t been dragged to the fiery pits quite yet.

“Why do you doubt your senses?”

“Because the littlest thing can affect them,” he retorted. “A sleepless night, a day of frustrations, a bit of undercooked food. There’s more  _ gravy  _ than  _ grave  _ of you, figment!”

In reply, the vision of Bea screeched as though she had done many times over the course of their partnership, rattling the chains about her with such a dreadful clamour that Crowley was sure he’d be deafened. He stumbled and fell out of his chair and onto his hands and knees as though he were little more than a lowly beast. He flung his hands over his head with a cry.

_ “Do you believe in me or not?!”  _ Bea shrieked.

“I do!” Crowley sobbed in reply. “B-but then… why are you  _ here?” _

“I am condemned to do so,” is all Bea would say.

Her still-living partner began to tremble. “Y-you are fettered in chains. W-w-why?”

“This is the chain I forged in life,” Bea said wearily. She held one end out. “I forged it link by link and yard by yard. You bear one yourself. Can you imagine it?”

Crowley’s quaking hands frantically patted himself down to feel for the invisible chains which the spectre spoke of. He lifted frightened eyes to the spirit hovering above him. “Where… where have you been all these seven years?” he whispered, though he dreaded to hear the answer.

“Wandering,” Bea replied on an exhalation like a frigid breeze. “I cannot rest. I cannot linger anywhere. I am doomed to roam the earth in death, forever bound by the sins I forged myself in life.”

“B-but you were always a good woman of business!” Crowley objected.

_ “Business?!”  _ screamed Bea. “Mankind should have been my ‘business’! Common welfare, charity, mercy, benevolence,  _ all  _ should have been my ‘business’!” She lifted her chain as though to bludgeon Crowley with it in rage, but let it drop back to the floor with a clang. She sighed. “It matters little. My time here is nearly gone, but I came here to warn you so that you may have a chance of escaping my wretched fate.”

Crowley smiled shakily and stood on legs that were little better than pudding.

“You were always good to me, Bea. Thank you,” he whimpered.

“Do not thank me yet. Your salvation comes in a haunting from three spirits,”

Crowley’s tentative smile dropped away.  _ “That’s  _ my hope and chance for redemption?”

“Indeed.”

“I… I’d rather not.”

Bea ignored him, slowly sliding backwards as though her chain were being physically pulled. Perhaps, for all Crowley knew, it was.

“You will see me no more. For your own sake, remember what I have told you this ‘eve,” she intoned grimly, before fading through the wall and once more into nothingness.

Crowley, similarly driven by an unseen force, crossed the room in halting steps to stare out the window. To his incalculable horror, the night air was filled with phantoms wandering the skies restlessly, moaning with despair the entire time.

Every single one was bound in chains.

Gradually they too faded into immaterial mist and the night air was once more still.

Crowley, paralyzed with dread at the premonition foretold to him, stumbled away from the window. The back of his knees hit his bed and he toppled backward. Whether it was from the fatigue of the day or the lateness of the hour, he swiftly knew no more and succumbed to peaceful darkness.


	2. The Ghost (Angel) of Christmas Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally makes his ghostly appearance!

Crowley was forced awake by the curtain on his bed being roughly drawn aside. He scrambled upright into a seated position and beheld a strange figure at the foot of his bed.

He was the size of a small child, then a housecat, then a grown man, then a small ember, seemingly unable to stay at one stature for long. His hair, as white as the snow outside the darkened window, flowed about his head in curling tongues of flame and his skin was pale and smoothe as candle wax. He wore a simple tunic of starched linen that stretched down to bare, dainty feet and cinched about the waist with a cord of gleaming silver. The strangest - or dare I say, captivating - feature of the being was a pair of eyes that shone with blue fire set in a kind, soft face that smiled apologetically at him.

“A-are you the spirit whose coming was foretold to me?” Crowley gulped, mouth dry.

“I am.”

The spirit’s voice was gentle, with a lilting, musical quality to it that sounded of ringing bells.

“Do… do you have a name?” Crowley asked.

The spirit seemed unable to decide whether he wanted to bow or courtesy, so he settled for a strange combination of the two: one hand holding the corner of his tunic while he bowed at the middle.

“I am Aziraphale, the ghost of Christmas Past.  _ Your  _ past, specifically,” he said with a kind smile. “If you would be so gracious as to rise and walk with me.”

He laid a deceptively strong hand on the inseam of Crowley’s elbow and gently coaxed him to his feet and towards the window. When the petrified man’s mind happened upon the realization that Aziraphale sought to pull him  _ out  _ of the window, Crowley looked to him in fright.

“I’m mortal! I will f-fall!” he objected.

The spirit blinked once in surprise, eyes sparking, then he grimaced. “Ah! Yes! I apologize for my haste. With but a touch of my hand here...” he said, laying his palm upon Crowley’s chest, directly above his heart.

Crowley had long thought himself incapable of feeling things such as warmth or excitement. However, when he felt that scorching hand slide over his heart, fingers curled slightly to feel the unyielding firmness of his chest, he felt a peculiar sensation thrill down his spine that had little to do with the supernatural circumstances surrounding their meeting.

No sooner had he been touched, then the surrounding building vanished and the pair found themselves standing upon an open country road with fallow fields on either side of them blanketed in crystalline snow on a crisp winter morning.

Crowley gasped, taking in the sight. “I… I know this place. I was a boy here,” he breathed in awe.

Aziraphale gazed at him fondly. He watched as Crowley’s expression cycled through joy, disbelief, and wonder at being flung so far into the past. Then, he bespied a single tear tracking its way down the mortal’s face.

“Your lip is trembling,” Aziraphale teased. “And what’s that upon your cheek?”

Crowley scrubbed away the offending tear and muttered something about the dry air.

“Just take me where you mean to take me,” he groused.

“We shall be visiting your old boarding school. Do you recall the way?” the spirit inquired.

“‘Recall’ it?” Crowley laughed. “I could walk it  _ blindfolded!” _

And thus they walked down the country lane, the man pointing out every landmark with a fond memory attached to it. As they continued, a small town appeared in the distance replete with towering church, old-stone bridge, and winding iced-over river. A horse-drawn cart laden with spirited, shouting children came over the bridge towards them. Crowley didn’t have time to leap to safety from the crushing wheels and stomping hooves, but it mattered not as the cart passed effortlessly through his body like it were immaterial mist.

He stumbled and would have fallen had Aziraphale not caught his arm and righted him.

“You’re safe, Anthony,” he declared. “These are but mere shadows of things that have been. They have no consciousness of us.”

When Crowley once more lifted his eyes, avoiding the kind smile of the spirit which seemed to set his very bones aflame, he found himself no longer on the lane, but inside an empty hall. He snarled.

“Why have you brought me to this deserted place?” he demanded.

“Not quite deserted,” Aziraphale said sadly, compassion shining from every inch of his face. “Here lingers a solitary child, orphaned and taken in only by the reluctant mercy of a cold headmaster; abandoned on Christmas by all who called him friend.”

_ “I  _ called them ‘friend’,” Crowley spat. “Would that I had been given the same kindness.”

The pair passed through the darkened hallway of the school, room doors hanging open to reveal cavernous rooms decorated sparsely with but the bare minimum of furniture. The chill from outside leaked between the uneven boards of the wall and through the missing panes of the dusty windows that had scarcely seen a wash since the time before even the  _ first  _ Christmas.

In one room, at the back of the hall, seated at a three-legged desk atop a wobbly stool which threatened to break any moment, was a lonely boy.

His nose was buried in a tattered book, his mind far away from the stark walls of his school and his prison, and Crowley choked down the urge to weep for his poor, younger self. Aziraphale held no such compunctions and openly wiped his eyes with his tunic sleeve.

“Oh you  _ poor  _ dear,” he sniffled unashamedly. “May I hug you?”

Crowley barely had time to croak out a “yes” before he was swept up into a hug that felt like he’d stepped directly into a sunbeam. Aziraphale’s arms came up around his back as broad palms pressed their bodies together. In his current form, the spirit barely came up to Crowley’s collar, if that, so his face was pressed into his chest. The flames of his hair tickled the mortal’s chin, but rather than burning, they felt like a gentle caress.

Crowley, long unaccustomed to a friendly touch in any capacity, sagged in the spirit’s - nay, the  _ angel’s  _ \- hold. He was kept standing only by those supportive arms.

“Th… thank you, angel,” he whispered.

“Think nothing of it, dear boy. Come, let us continue our journey.”

It was but the span between one blink and the next that they found themselves standing, no longer in the old schoolhouse, but in the busy thoroughfare of the city. Carts, coaches, and people all bustled down the street with a calamitous hubbub as the sun finished setting over the western horizon.

Aziraphale had led them in front of a warehouse door painted over in yellow and bronze and asked if Crowley recognized it.

“I was an apprentice here!” the man declared.

They went in and were greeted by the sight of an old… well… “gentleman” would have been too kind of a word. He sat at a desk, muttering incoherently under his breath and Aziraphale made a dainty noise of distaste at the sight of him.

“Good Lord…”

Crowley, however, was heedless of the spirit’s revulsion.

“It’s Shadwell! Old Shadwell alive again!”

Shadwell put down his quill, looked to the wall clock, then rubbed his gloved hands together against the chill which seemed to be everywhere in London come winter. He called out in a grating voice with an accent that may have been Scottish in his youth, but now in his old age blurred into an unrecognizable mush, “Anthony!”

Crowley’s former self, now no longer a sad little boy but a bright young man, came bounding into the room.

“Aye, sir?”

“It's Christmas Eve, young Anthony. No more work tonight! Time to prepare fer the influx of paganism and witchcraft that’s  _ sure  _ to be upon us!”

At the sight of Aziraphale’s visible confusion, Crowley threw back his head with a laugh and explained that Shadwell’s “preparations” amounted to a Christmas party, in truth. The old man’s wife, a delightful woman by the name of Marjorie Potts (Madame Tracy to those who knew her from her days as a brothel-madame) threw a marvellous gala every year whilst her husband grumbled and muttered about witches but allowed her to have her festivities anyway.

And what festivities they were!

There were fiddlers playing merry jigs that had all the assembled dancing in a flurry! There were people from all walks of life: bakers to bureaucrats, commoners to counts, any and all were welcome at Tracy’s Ball! The port flowed freely, filling the air with the sticky-sweet scent of fruit and the tables groaned beneath the weight of candied nuts, cakes, and meats.

When the clock struck eleven, though it seemed hesitant to do so and end the revelry of the evening, the crowd dispersed with warm embraces and hand shakes, thanking Shadwell and Tracy for the wondrous evening followed by declarations of anticipation for the next one.

During the entire display, Crowley had watched the ball in rapt attention. He pointed out people he knew at one point or another, recounting with perfect clarity what he had been doing that night. While the mortal’s eyes had been fixed on the festivities, the spirit’s had watched the way the other’s face, hardened with frost and bitterness, had softened considerably under the warmth of fond memories. Mr. Crowley himself was not even two score, yet his bitterness had aged his face considerably. When he smiled, the jagged edges and hard lines smoothed out, revealing the youthful, almost boyish, countenance beneath. Aziraphale found his face feeling quite flushed.

“Come! We must go! Our time together grows short!” he said with haste, willing down the heat in his cheeks.

Crowley’s smile dropped away, looking truly vulnerable for the first time that night. “What?”

In a blink, they were no longer standing inside the warehouse. Rather, they were in the building that would come to be home to Crowley and Zebub’s counting-house. The Crowley of this memory had aged a decade from the previous. He paced back and forth in front of the window as a woman stood watching him with a neutral expression on her face.

She was younger than him by a few years, with dark hair that flowed down her back in waves and a thick pair of spectacles perched atop a small nose. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was clad in a black mourning dress. At the sight of her, present-Crowley’s face re-hardened and he looked away.

“You’re not the man you once were,” she said quietly, voice shaking with ill-concealed rage.

_ “What  _ are you talking about, Anathema?” the younger Crowley, Anthony, spat in reply.

“You have become fearful of the world, think yourself beyond reproach, and have no further aspirations beyond your business.”

Crowley worried his bottom lip with his teeth, like Anathema’s words were a physical blow that wounded him. Aziraphale observed him carefully.

“I haven’t  _ changed.  _ I’ve simply grown  _ wiser!”  _ Anthony objected.

Anathema tossed her hands in the air with a noise of disgust.

“What happened to the young man I used to know? What happened to the joy of our teenage years when we were close as siblings?”

“I was a  _ boy!” _

Anthony slammed his fist against the wall and Anathema, his oldest and dearest friend, flinched back. A look of fright crossed her features for only a moment, then it was gone and replaced with righteous indignation.

“I am through with you!” she declared as her voice gained strength in conviction. “I can no longer call you brother, much less friend. May you be happy in the life you have chosen for yourself.”

Before her companion could stop her, she swept out of the counting house in a billow of her skirts and the door slamming behind her was like a death knell declaring the end of their camaraderie.

And indeed, it was.

“Anthony…” Aziraphale whispered, and reached to touch him, but Crowley wrenched himself away.

“Show me no more. Take me home.”

The spirit shook his head sadly. “I cannot. There is one more thing I must show you.”

“No more!” Crowley roared. “I don’t wish to see any more!”

He moved as if to storm off, but Aziraphale, now dwarfing him in height, caught him from behind and pinned his arms to his sides.

“You  _ must  _ see!”

The scene changed once more, this time to a small room lit by a cozy hearth fire. In front of the fire sat a young woman who could have passed for Crowley’s former friend were she a bit older. As for her mother, Anathema herself, she was seated beside her. The room was positively overflowing with children who ran hither and yon in a tumultuous tide of tots. Neither Anathema nor her eldest daughter, however, seemed bothered by the noise. Rather, they appeared to be in great spirits, even joining in the chase and the games with beaming smiles.

A knock came from the door and the crowd surged for it just as a timid, mousy-looking gentleman entered the house. He stumbled back from the force of his children’s many embraces, knocking his glasses askew. Anathema chuckled and re-affixed them in place for him.

“The little ones seem to have missed you, Newton,” she said warmly.

Her husband, for what else could he be to look upon her with such devotion, pressed an appreciative kiss to her cheek.

“Seems so,” he said, then his blue eyes widened with remembrance. “I’d almost forgotten, but I saw an old friend of yours today. It was Anthony Crowley! I passed by his office window this afternoon and there he was, sitting hunched over his desk like a gargoyle. I hear his partner, Miss Zebub, lies on the brink of death. And yet, there he sat without shedding so much as a tear for the poor woman.”

“This doesn’t surprise me,” Anathema scoffed. “Nothing short of Hellfire could melt  _ that  _ man’s heart.”

It was  _ that  _ final condemnation, filled with such vitriol that had been nursed over many years since their division, that finally broke Crowley. Anathema, once the only friend he’d had in the world, still abhorred him. She had moved on and found joy.

And he was alone.

He slumped in the spirit’s hold as the vision melted away and they were in his cold, empty bedroom once more. It was so far removed from the warmth of Anathema’s own abode that Crowley felt the chill even keener, despite the arms wrapped around him. Aziraphale relinquished him and the mortal nearly went to his knees with grief.

“Why do you torment me with such visions?” Crowley whispered in a broken voice. “Leave me.”

“Oh, my dear boy, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands. His guilt and the pain he felt radiating from the man beside him had shrunk him down to the size of a doll, small enough to fit on one’s palm were he to lay flat from finger to wrist. “But I  _ had  _ to show them to you. They were shadows of things that have been, and they are what they are. I cannot control them, so please do not blame me.”

Something in Crowley cracked then.

Whether it was his heart or his sanity, I cannot say.

He rounded on the spirit.  _ “Leave me!”  _ he shouted. “Haunt me  _ no longer!” _

Quick as a shot, his hand lashed out and plucked Aziraphale from the air. The spirit squirmed fitfully in Crowley’s hold and  _ would  _ have forced himself free had he not suddenly found himself deposited unceremoniously into an empty jelly jar with the lid screwed tight.

Crowley held the jar aloft with a triumphant hoot, thanking himself for having the unintentional foresight to have not thrown out the empty jar from this morning’s toast. He brought it to eye level to boast of his own cleverness to the captive spirit, but felt all desire to do so immediately flee from his body.

Aziraphale was slumped against the walls of the jar. His eyes were half-lidded and dull grey rather than fire-blue. His hair, for now it truly did look like hair, hung limply in front of his face as his mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.

Air!

The spirit’s flame was dying, for he had no air!

Crowley, seized with a dreadful guilt and horror, but fearful of Aziraphale’s wrath should he free him, snatched his letter-opener from his desk and drove it many times through the jar lid to puncture breathing holes. All at once, Aziraphale took a mighty breath and his color and fire returned. Crowley sat down heavily on his bed with relief. Before he could ask after the spirit’s wellness, Aziraphale stumbled to his feet and pounded his diminutive fists against the glass with the sound of  _ dink-dink-dink! _

“How  _ dare  _ you!” he screeched, his words tinny inside his glass prison. “You’ve- you’ve- you’ve  _ abducted  _ me?!”

While there was enough air to keep him alive (and allow him to scream), it was too scarce to allow him to grow to a tremendous size and shatter the jar.

He was, for all intents and purposes, trapped and at the mercy of the human he had been haunting. Crowley happened upon this realization at the same time Aziraphale did, and his lips curled upwards in a vicious smile.

“I will release you on the condition that you and the rest of the spirits you have intended for me leave me be and never darken my door again!” he demanded.

Aziraphale’s jaw popped open at the  _ audacity. _

“But what of your redemption?” he gasped. “What of becoming a better man to avoid your business partner’s cruel fate?”

“Quite frankly, I would rather take my chances with the chains than be subjected to more torments. Do you agree to leave me, or not?”

Aziraphale’s eyes fell to his bare feet which had turned inwards towards himself. “I cannot release you,” he admitted shame-facedly. “It is beyond my power to do so, as I am the weakest of the three spirits.”

Crowley huffed and sat his captive atop the nightstand.

“Very well,” he said with finality. “I shall simply wait until they come to fetch you so I may bargain with  _ them  _ instead.”

At that, Aziraphale released a sound that may have been a hiccuping sob. A single tear escaped his eye to instantaneously turn to steam upon contact with his cheek. He rested against the jar wall and sank to the ground, his knees drawn to his chest.

“No one will come for me,” he whispered. “The others care not for me.”

Crowley scarcely dared to believe it. The tiny spirit imprisoned in his jar was kind, handsome in features, and gentle (despite his predilection for taunting one with visions of their own tormented past, though he could be forgiven as it  _ was  _ his duty). He had confessed to being the weakest, but surely that warranted  _ extra  _ care from his companions, rather than callous disregard?

Then again, could not the same have been said for Crowley himself? Had he too not been left to rot, forsaken? He knew the bitter sting of it quite well. Still, he dared not release the spirit. Aziraphale may have been kind, but there was nothing stopping him from potentially smiting Crowley on the spot for his arrogance. However, they were both just as likely to remain trapped for eternity in a suspended bubble of time should Crowley  _ not  _ release him.

What was one mortal to do?

For this mortal, it was to do what he did best: bargain.

“I cannot free you. However, I also have no desire to remain here,” he said. “Is it possible for  _ you  _ to be the one to move us forward through my lesson so that we may emerge on the other side?”

Aziraphale blinked in dawning realization. He stared down at his own hands like they were a marvel.

“I… I  _ suppose  _ I could,” he said haltingly. “I have never played the parts of Christmases Present and Future before,”

“How hard can it be?” Crowley asked with what he hoped to be a confident smile.


	3. The Makeshift Ghost of Christmas Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale begins his temporary stint as the Ghost of Christmas Present!

Aziraphale scrunched up his darling nose and with a  _ pop!  _ a holly wreath appeared around his head as his tunic bled from white to deep forest-green. The flames of his hair condensed to proper strands so as not to burn the leaves, and he stumbled back to his feet. He pressed his palm against the wall of the jar.

“Touch my hand as best you can,” he commanded.

Crowley did so, pressing the pad of his pinkie to the glass of the jar, and the surroundings of his bedroom vanished completely. Instead they stood upon the streets of the poorer slums of the city. The dirty grey snow upon the ground had been shunted to the sides of the streets to allow for the passage of carriages and horses and a potent mixture of ash and powder drifted down from the air. Every chimney in the city seemed to be ablaze to dye the sky so grey.

And yet, the people shovelling show away from their ramshackle roofs and windows were merry and full of cheer. They shouted greetings to one another, each revelling in the joy of Christmas morn. Two girls, each giddly throwing filthy clumps of snow at each other from across the lane, were forced to dive to the side to avoid being crushed underhoof as a carriage trimmed in silver thundered past. The coachman shouted, “Out of the way, filth!” from his perch atop the bench as he passed.

Crowley gaped in horror, but the children were unaffected. They merely resumed their game. The man unseen to them, however, was agog.

“That was Bishop Wescott’s carriage! I recognize it!” he gasped. He held up Aziraphale’s jar to glare at it accusingly. “How could you allow this to happen? To have men such as him do such wrong on this day? Practically in your name?!”

“How  _ dare  _ you!” Aziraphale snapped back. “These so-called ‘men of the cloth’ who do their deeds of pride, hatred, and bigotry are as unrecognizable to my kin as some unknown beast of the field! Charge their wicked deeds to  _ them,  _ not  _ us!” _

Crowley fell silent, thoroughly chastised at the sight of Aziraphale’s fury blazing hot enough to scorch the wreath atop his head. He muttered an apology for his mistake and with that he was led to the meagre home of his clerk, Arthur Young. They stood in the doorway, watching, as Arthur’s wife, Deirdre, set the table for their Christmas meal. She stood back from the setting, her hands atop her hips.

“Where  _ are  _ those two?” she said to herself.

Then, in came Arthur, his threadbare clothes dusted with snow, and his son Adam upon his shoulder and clutching a small, wooden carving of a dog worn smoothe from years of rubbing of little fingers. He sat the boy down upon the ground, whereupon he hobbled to the copper kettle to lift the lid and peer inside to gauge the doneness of the pudding.

“There you are! How was church? Did our little Adam behave?” Deirdre asked.

“As good as gold,” Arthur replied. “Better, even. Though he does think the strangest things you’ve ever heard. He told me, coming home, that he hopes the people see him and that, because he is enfeebled, it reminds them of how fortunate they are to not be thus.” His voice was tremulous when he spoke; even moreso when he - falsely - claimed that Adam was growing stronger every day.

The dour mood was quickly swept away, however, when it came time to dine. Arthur said, with great solemnity, that this year’s goose was Deirdre’s finest yet. Deirdre blushed to hear it, pleased. Soon enough, it came time for the toast of mulled wine. Arthur rose from his seat to hold his chipped cup aloft.

“A Merry Christmas to all of us, my dears!”

His family echoed his sentiments. Beside Arthur sat Adam, with his frail hand encased in his father’s larger one.

“Angel…” whispered Crowley, with a desperation he had not felt before. “Tell me if Adam will live.”

“I… I see a vacant seat by the hearth, and a toy carving… carefully preserved,” Aziraphale replied. “If these shadows remain unaltered, then the child  _ will  _ d-die.”

“No…  _ no! Please,  _ Aziraphale! Spare him!”

The spirit shook his head. “I cannot. I do not have the power to influence the course of the future. Only the living may do so. But was it not  _ you  _ who said that if some may die, they should do it in order to ‘decrease the surplus population’?”

Crowley felt the sting of his own words as though they were a physical blow. He hung his head and clutched the jar to his chest, overcome with penitence and grief for his previous sentiment. Aziraphale leaned back against the glass, hoping to impart some of his own warmth into the body separated from his own by a thin sheet of glass. Crowley raised his head suddenly upon hearing his name.

“I’d like to propose a toast to Mr. Crowley: the founder of our feast!” Arthur declared.

“‘Founder of the feast’,” Deirdre scoffed, her face reddening in anger. “If he were here, I’d give him a piece of my mind!”

“Dear, it’s  _ Christmas,”  _ her husband gently admonished.

“Why should we drink to such a harsh, unfeeling man as Mr. Crowley?! You know what he’s like! I daresay  _ nobody  _ knows him better than you do!” she retorted.

“Deirdre.  _ Christmas Day." _

She exhaled wearily. “I’ll drink to his health for  _ your  _ sake, not his. Long life to him. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I’m  _ sure  _ he’ll be  _ very  _ merry today,” she said bitingly before taking a swig from her own cup.

It came as a great surprise to Crowley, then, to hear a hearty laugh from somewhere behind him. He turned, expecting to see a guest of Arthur’s, but instead found himself standing in his neighbor Eric’s home. The dark-haired man was surrounded by all their neighbors, hands clutching his sides as he gave a deep belly-laugh. Aziraphale was smiling at him with approval, stifling a giggle behind his hand. Eric  _ was  _ somewhat infamous for having a contagious laugh that none could resist. It didn’t compare to the spirit’s communicability, however, when Aziraphale deigned to allow a musical chortle to slip out past his fingers. Crowley felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward with a snort of what  _ may  _ have been laughter of his own.

“He said that Christmas was a waste of one’s time, as sure as I live!” Eric announced to the assembled. “And he  _ believed  _ it too!”

“Such a shame,” his wife tutted.

“He’s certainly an… interesting fellow,” said Eric. “But it matters little. His behavior carries its own punishment, so I’ll say nothing against him.”

_ “I,  _ for one, have  _ no  _ patience for him."

Many of those gathered to celebrate Christmas with Eric and his wife chorused their agreement with the good woman.

Eric for his part, shrugged. “I pity him, to tell the truth. Who suffers most from his ill behavior? Himself! He decides that he does not wish to come celebrate with us tonight, so what does he lose? A marvellous dinner, and fine company!”

“Hear! Hear!”

The cry went up from all the partygoers who lifted their glasses in a cheer. As the night went on, they began to play a sort of guessing game for the festivities, whereupon Eric was tasked with thinking of something, and could only respond to inquiries upon it with “yes” or “no” answers. Crowley and Aziraphale watched as he silently picked something, and responded to the questions of his neighbors. Thus far it  _ was  _ an animal (a rather disagreeable one), it  _ did  _ growl and grunt, it was  _ not  _ a bull nor tiger nor dog nor bear. With each ensuing question or guess, Eric’s face grew redder and redder with laughter. At last, one of the neighbor’s happened upon the answer and she leapt up with a jovial cackle.

“I found it out, Eric! I know what it is! It’s Mr. Crowley!”

And indeed it was. While the majority of the revelers expressed humor and mirth at Eric’s choice, the gentleman who had guessed “bear” felt that his answer should have counted, for what else could Mr. Crowley be? Another woman, (“dog” had been her guess) was of a similar sentiment.

The whole scene vanished, then, and angel and man stood together in a dark and lonely place, lit only by the imprisoned angel’s flickering light. Crowley turned in a circle, observing the nothingness.

“What is this place?” he asked in a frightened whisper, subconsciously holding the jar tighter to him.

“Our next destination,” Aziraphale answered with a worried wring of his hands. The wreath upon his head had shrivelled, now little more than a grey husk. With a snap of his fingers, he banished it to the nether. He swallowed heavily, for it so pained him to bring Crowley here.

Crowley suddenly cried out, dropping the jar. He caught it almost immediately after inadvertently giving the angel within such a fright that he may be shattered upon the ground. The mortal’s trembling fingers gripped it hard enough to whiten the nails.

“Th-there! In the darkness!” he babbled, staring intently into the shadows beyond their small shared circle of light. “I see something strange. Is that a foot or a claw?”

“It  _ may  _ be a claw for the scant amount of flesh upon it,” came Aziraphale’s mournful reply.

From the darkness came forth two children, wretched and hideous. They moved across the ground on crouched legs, supported by gnarled hands. Crowley moaned and averted his eyes. Aziraphale tapped frantically on the glass. “Please, Anthony, you  _ must  _ look. I know it’s frightful, but it is the only way for us to continue. Do you trust me?”

Crowley took in a shuddering breath.

“I… I do,” he whispered.

He opened his eyes and beheld the horror.

The children were two, in ragged garments with matching scowls. Where youth should have filled their features, instead was shrivelled with the rigours of premature age. They stared at Crowley with shadowed eyes and the man stared back, appalled. He tried to say something,  _ anything  _ to offer comfort to such wretches, but the words choked him. Three, however, slipped free. “A-are they yours?”

Aziraphale heaved a world-weary sigh. “They are man’s,” he stated, looking forlornly upon them. “The boy is Ignorance. The girl is Want. Beware them both, but the boy moreso.”

“H-have they no refuge? No  _ resource?!”  _ Crowley’s breath hitched.

Aziraphale lifted his face, then, and the mortal moaned with despair. The angel’s eyes had darkened to the color of the midnight sea.

“Are there no prisons, or workhouses?” he said in Crowley’s own voice.

The white of his tunic began to change, lengthening to the floor of his small prison and mouldering to black as deep as his eyes and as Mr. Crowley’s own heart. The hem of it flowed like mist, and Crowley at once realized that it was now time for his final lesson.


	4. A Lesson Learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the "scary ghost stories" part of that one song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, LOTS of death imagery and mentions in this chapter (including child death in-canon with A Christmas Carol) so tread carefully! I kept this chapter short so as not to taint the final chapter (and ensuing happy ending with such sadness ; ; )

“Is it now the time for you to show me shadows of things that have not happened but will soon come to pass?” Crowley ventured to ask.

Aziraphale inclined his head.

It was the only answer he received.

The angel lifted a sleeved hand and pointed ahead, into the darkness. Crowley cast his eyes about for the neglected children, but they had vanished as surely as if they’d never been there at all. Crowley tried to lift a foot to take his first tremulous step forward, but his legs trembled beneath him and he found he could barely stand. It filled him with certain horror - as it would anyone else - to think that he was meant to step into the void beyond with nary but a vague promise of future growth.

“It will be alright, Anthony,” the angel said soothingly.

He lifted a small hand up through the air-holes in the jar lid and waved it about. Crowley watched him in confusion, then realized what it was that Aziraphale was trying to do. The mortal held out his pinkie and the angel’s hand closed around it in as close to a comforting hand hold as he could get. Crowley exhaled.

“Lead on,”

He did not need to take a step forward, as he felt himself be pulled along over the ground like it was ice. The city sprung up around them, shoots through the earth, and soon they were in the heart of it where people hurried up and down the throughway.

Aziraphale pointed the hand not holding Crowley’s to a knot of businessmen gathered ‘round the bank steps. The mortal advanced to listen to their talk.

“When did he die?” inquired one man.

“Last night, I believe,”

“Why, what was wrong with him?” asked another, fiddling with his pocket watch.

“God knows,” replied the first, with a yawn. “I don’t expect there to be many attendees at the funeral. Still, should we go and pay our respects?”

“I don’t mind going… if lunch is provided,” answered the second.

They dispersed with booming laughter and Crowley was tugged forward once more to a ramshackle shop. It was a place where one could sell all manner of ill-gotten gains to turn a quick profit when times were lean.

Crowley and his angel entered the building just as a woman slunk in with a heavy bundle. The former recognized her as his housekeeper, Ms. Diana Agon. A man, hunched double, emerged from the belly of the shop.

“What have you?” he asked in a voice like bones clattering.

Ms. Agon upended the bundle, spilling forth a variety of exquisite garments. The man’s brows lifted.

“Are those from-”

“Aye. None were there to stop me. Perhaps if he hadn’t been such a wicked thing, he’d have had someone with him instead of lying there gasping out his last breath all by himself,” Ms. Agon said.

“No truer words were spoken,”

Crowley watched and listened in horror, Aziraphale with a matching expression, as the two thieves greedily pawed about their plunder. Ms. Agon cackled. “He frightened everyone away when he was alive, only to profit us in death!”

Crowley shivered from head to toe, his eyes screwed tight. When he reopened them, he recoiled in terror from the newest sight. Before him lay a bare bed, on which lay a human shape covered up by only the flimsiest of rags. The room was too dark to properly see by, but he could make out the vaguest shapes of his bedroom furniture.

He glanced down at Aziraphale, who was sniffling and turning his head away as if to bury his face in Crowley’s comforting torso; to seek shelter from the horror on the bed. Crowley, unable to do more beyond this, wrapped his hands around the jar to shield the angel’s eyes. No sounds could be heard in this frightful tomb beyond the skittering of rats within the walls.

“Angel, this is a dreadful place,” he rasped. “I will not leave its lesson if  _ we  _ may leave. Please… sh-show me some tenderness connected with death else this chamber will forever haunt me.”

Aziraphale, knowing what was to come next, let out a wail that rent Crowley open from neck to navel. Crowley desperately cast about for a way to end the angel’s torment, but they were once more elsewhere.

Arthur Young’s dwelling.

The door opened and Arthur entered, followed by his wife. Their faces were cast down and bore so heavy a grief that one could never hope to describe it.

“It’s a lovely place,” Arthur said.

“Indeed. We can- can- s-see him every Sunday,” answered Deirdre, words catching.

They broke down all at once. It couldn’t be helped. On the floor, they clung to each other, mourning the heaviest loss a parent could dread to face. They swore to each other, wiping away the other’s tears and their own, that they would never forget their darling Adam. Their hands clutched tightly together, anchoring each other.

Crowley broke then as well.

He dropped heavily to his knees, finally no longer to support himself beneath the weight of his own sins. The jar slipped from his grasp to shatter on the floor and at once Aziraphale sprang up, returned to his former glowing glory. Crowley awaited the smiting that was sure to come, craved it, craved an end to his own wretched existence, but was instead swept into a warm, comforting embrace.

“It’s alright, dear. It’s alright,” Aziraphale whispered, rocking the two of them together. “Remember, these are shadows of things that  _ may  _ be. The events you have seen can be altered by a changed life.”

“I am  _ beyond  _ redemption,” Crowley wept miserably as he clung to the angel’s tunic. He sucked in a shuddering gasp. “Tell me… was… was  _ I  _ that unloved man who lay upon the bed?”

Aziraphale’s answer in the affirmative was agonizing. Then, Crowley felt his chin lifted upwards to meet the other’s kind blue ones.

“You are  _ not  _ unloved,” Aziraphale said with conviction. “If nothing else is kept from tonight, keep  _ this  _ with you: I have seen your past sorrows and beheld the man they made you into. You are lost, not gone. There is  _ always  _ a chance for hope, if you’ve the courage to take it.”

Crowley pressed his face to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Hear me, angel. I’m not the man I was. I never will be again. I  _ swear  _ to you. I will keep Christmas in my heart all the days of the year, not just one. I will live in the past, present,  _ and  _ the future, and count myself grateful for the opportunity. I will not ignore the lessons you have taught me here tonight.”

“Oh, Anthony! I’m so  _ proud  _ of you!” Aziraphale sniffled.

As the world around them shrunk and collapsed, the final lesson taught, he pressed a kiss to the mortal’s lips.


	5. Christmas Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's redemption is complete and the sun rises on Christmas morning!

When he pulled away they were, for the final time, standing in Crowley’s bedroom. The sun had come up, and the church bells merrily tolled to herald Christmas morning! Crowley touched his own lips, scarcely daring to believe what had just happened.

He’d been kissed by a genuine angel.

An angel who had seen him for all his faults, and still chose to kiss him.

Quite frankly, Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with these emotions of joy and anticipation and hope and  _ warmth _ that leapt in his heart. It felt as if he’d never truly  _ lived  _ until that moment. He didn’t know what his plans for the Christmases to come held, only that he wished to share them with Aziraphale.

He stepped forward to hold him, but he moved through Aziraphale’s form like mist.

“Angel, wha-”

Aziraphale’s smile was shattered and his eyes shone with moisture.

“My time upon this globe is very brief,” he admitted. “It ends today.”

“T-today?” Crowley whispered. He shook his head, refusing to believe. “You cannot make me love you, show me  _ kindness,  _ and then  _ leave!  _ You need to stay and ensure that I follow the lessons you have taught!”

Aziraphale’s form sputtered like the candlelight from which he drew his brightness.

“I cannot, dearest. Not as I am,” he said sadly. His voice was fading and sounded further away. “But I will  _ never  _ leave you, so long as you keep Christmas alive in your heart.”

He laid his hand upon Crowley’s heart, the very last piece of him that was still material. “Promise me you will.”

“I… I promise,” Crowley swore. “But, angel, please! Don’t go! Don’t leave m-”

When the first rays of dawn touched Aziraphale he faded completely. Nothing was left of him but the lingering scent of something indescribably wonderful on the air and the warmth that had seeped into Crowley’s once-frozen heart and thawed the last of it forevermore.

Alone, Crowley sunk to the ground and wept.

***~*~*~*~***

Mr. Crowley was better than his word.

He did all that he said he would, and  _ more. _

He gave his poor beleaguered clerk a hefty raise to ensure the care and treatment of young Adam’s health. To the boy, who would come to grow hale and hearty, Crowley would eventually become something akin to a second father.

He took Eric up on his offer to come celebrate Christmas and swore to do so for all the years to come over their friendship. Eric had not been unnerved in the least to see his once-dour neighbor shift near completely in character overnight, though he could not help but notice how each of Crowley’s smiles were tinged with sadness.

To the alms-collectors whom Crowley had viciously berated, he found them that very same day and pledged a sizable sum of money to help the less fortunate. The collectors had been utterly baffled, to say the least, and were concerned that Crowley must have lost his mind at some intervening point between Christmas Eve and Day.

He became as good a friend, as good a neighbor, and as good a citizen as none had ever been seen before or since.

And yet, he was still not happy.

Not fully.

Not after knowing a taste of true love and having it slip away between the rosy fingers of dawn.

***~*~*~*~***

That first Christmas as a man reborn, Crowley strolled the wintry streets of London. While many still avoided him (a fair reaction, as one does not immediately convince others of one’s changed character) he did his utmost best to greet them each with a smile or kind word.

Before him, he beheld a lone caroller on the street corner singing “Joy to the World”. The singer was dressed in beige and cream, with a mop of snow-white curls captured beneath a well-worn cap. Crowley nearly ran to him, before he decided otherwise. It was merely a coincidence.

Crowley doffed his tophat as he went by, wished the singer a Merry Christmas, and continued on his way.

“Really, dear one? Not going to acknowledge me on today of all days?”

He froze.

The voice…

It was unmistakable…

He turned slowly, refusing to believe his own eyes. But then, hadn’t Bea asked the same of him?

_ Why do you doubt your senses? _

The caroller removed his cap and his hair, no longer curling tongues of flame, but soft twists of down, sprang free.

Aziraphale smiled at him, as bright as it had ever been.

“A… angel?” Crowley gasped.

Aziraphale held out his arms.

“It’s me, my love,” he said.

He was immediately engulfed in a desperate embrace. Hands that trembled from warring disbelief and gratitude skimmed across his arms, shoulders, and face.

“It- it’s truly  _ you!”  _ Crowley gasped. “But… but  _ how?!  _ You said-”

Aziraphale silenced him with a kiss that bordered on impropriety. He pulled away but did not go far, resting their foreheads together.

“It would seem that even spirits are granted Christmas wishes,” he giggled. “I wished to be with you. To  _ stay  _ with you and watch you grow into the good man I  _ knew  _ was there inside.”

“Oh,  _ angel!” _

They kissed once more, and again for good measure. 

Crowley’s heart laughed, and found its voice echoed in the chest of the former-angel before him.

**THE END**


End file.
